


Word of Mouth

by Daerwyn



Series: A Collection of Drabbles by Helmaninquiel [80]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Implied Smut, Suggestive Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-23 03:24:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8312164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daerwyn/pseuds/Daerwyn
Summary: Where Beorn doesn't think you love him, but you prove him wrong.





	

If there was anything more stubborn than an ox, you would bet your life that it was a bear. When you had turned of age, you had left your village in the small town of Carrock, and wandered the valley for days until you came across the little farm house with large bees and wild flowers growing haphazardly around.

And you had offered your services to cook and clean, and mend anything, in return for shelter. You did not require any money, but you had hoped to work for your share of the food. It took four days of you living in the valley in front of his home for him to agree to the cohabitation, him wary of your presence more than anything. And inside the home, you doubted a woman had ever lived there.

But if you met anyone stubborner than he, you would forfeit everything to your name (which wasn’t much, admittedly, but you knew it could not be so). He did not like the fire on during the day - even in the harshest of winds in the winter. He did not care for vegetables in spring. He did not like stitching being done on the insides of garments, where the knots could be hidden, but wanted them exposed. He did not like certain colored patches on his trousers. He did not like conversation at the table. He did not like to remove the clinking chains on his wrists. He did not like a lot of things.

But he did love honey.

And any time you found him in a disagreeable mood, you would surprise him with a stash of honey cakes that you always kept on hand. You went through them by the week, requiring more to be made while he was away.

He did not like anything familiar. Some days, while he was gone, he would return with a garment or two for you - clothing that you either worked through too quickly, or life on the farm frayed too much to repair. You were touched that he would take so much care to find something for you - sometimes the fabric feeling much too expensive under your hands, but any time you expressed your gratitude he would grunt and walk away. You rarely ever finished your sentence.

It was an accident that you had fallen for the man. You had only been living in the small farm for a year by the time you came to the conclusion that your heart could love no other. His silent gifts, and tender heart proved to be your weakness. He never was firm, or loud with you. If he ever disagreed, he’d grunt and say nothing more. If he was every angry with you, he never knew it. If he didn’t like something, he would simply state that he didn’t like it so. If it was food, he would always wait until after the meal to state he wasn’t fond of sauteed vegetables, or boiled peanuts. He never appeared ungrateful for your help in anything you could manage.

He was polite, in a backwards way.

He didn’t like when you’d pry. You had made the mistake a few times, asking about the chains and what they meant. He had ignored the question. You had tried again weeks later, your curiosity getting the best of you as he chopped wood, and the rattling of chains had woken you by dawn. As you carried the wood towards the house for the fire at night, he had swung the axe down, missing the log and imbedding it in the chopping trunk.

“Don’t ask about the chains. You won’t like the answer.” And you had mulled it over for the days after what it had meant when he said that you wouldn’t like the answer. Had he murdered someone? Been imprisoned and escaped? Had he gotten trapped somewhere? At night, you would lay on your stack of hay and image tales of heroism and bravery. Or tales of misery.

Some thoughts would drive you to tears, as you imagined his suffering. You could not deny the scars that lined his arms while he would work outside. Or his hands while he would eat. Something terrible had befallen him.

You didn’t ask again, afraid that he would confirm your fears.

But nearly two years into your time at the small little farm, while you were grooming the ponies, he spoke up from behind you, causing you to jump in alarm. He rarely was in the house during the day, and you always heard him approach because of the chains. But today was different. “Why do you stay?” His voice was gruff, confused. And as you turned towards him, he was facing you. He was always facing you.

Not once do you ever recall him turning his back to you.

Your answer slipped from your tongue before you even registered what you said. “Because I love you.” And as soon as he frowned, your eyes widened in alarm. “I… Forgive me. That was… I-” You swallowed before you could embarrass yourself further. And you turned towards the horse, brushing it more firmly to distract yourself.

“Say it once more.” Your hand slowed to a stop, and you swallowed. Was this a trick? Was this some sort of ploy to get you to speak your feelings, and then he cast you away? He didn’t like familiarity. He didn’t like closeness. And this was all of that. You set the brush down, closing your eyes in a silent prayer, before you opened them and turned towards him. His face gave nothing away of what he thought, and it was no longer frowning. Just a mask.

“I love you,” you spoke earnestly.

You stared into his eyes, full of doubt. Full of suspicion. You knew that it was rare he trusted anyone. And while you were not just anyone, and he held you in some respect, you doubted he’d ever trust you fully. You didn’t blame him, most days, hearing the clinking of his chains as he worked, never having the heart to take them off, never letting himself forget.

“You don’t. You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Beorn’s words were gruff, barely earning a rise of his chest as he rushed the words out. Like he was desperately trying to explain to himself what you could have meant.

You felt angry at those words. You weren’t an insolent child, you knew your mind and your heart better than he thought you did. “I think I know exactly how I feel-”

“You know nothing about me,” Beorn returned gruffly.

“I know,” you returned sharply. “Because you never let me ask.” He didn’t look sorry, and you supposed that he shouldn’t have to. “But I do know my heart, and I know enough about you for my heart to tell me what it feels. I know that you take honey in your tea, more honey than you give yourself tea, in fact, because of the sweetness. You wipe your feet at the door twice before you enter, though there’s really no need to, because there’s dirt in here anyway. You always retire for bed at dusk, saying nothing but just walking to your room. You’ll disappear for days on end, and won’t tell me where you’ve gone, but you return filthy, smelling of the woods and sometimes you have cuts on you, and other times you do not. I suspect you go to Carrock, and fight, but I’ve no proof. I never follow.”

He glanced away and you took a step towards him, out of the stalls in the home and closer to him in the middle of the sitting area. “Sometimes you will wander out of your room in the middle of the night, sleepwalking, and you will stand there in the middle of the kitchen and stare out the window.” He looked surprised, like he didn’t know that. “Sometimes I hear noises that are not human coming from your room at night, and I want to check on you, to see if you’re alright, but I do not want to invade your privacy if…” You trailed off awkwardly. Perhaps that was too much? You were not ignorant to a man, and Beorn’s smooth expression told you that you had said too much - and you didn’t know if you were right or not. “I know you. More than you think.”

“You don’t know the beginning-”

“You wear them to never forget where you came from, what happened to you.” You swallowed as he glanced to you sharply, a warning in his eyes. “I know that you’re hiding something from me, but I don’t know what-”

“Nor should you-”

“I love you, and nothing changes that fact. No matter if you have lived a thousand years, or thirty.”

He was silent, and nothing in the house creaked. Not even the ponies moved. A few bees floated in from the open window, drowning the silence with a faint buzzing. And he eased himself into a chair, giving a great sigh. The house exhaled with him. “I’m a skin changer.” When he was met with your blank stare, he cleared his throat. “I run in the woods, those days I am gone, and I turn into a bear.”

You stared at him thoughtfully. Well, that certainly explained the noises you would hear. And the love for honey. “Are you dangerous?”

“In my bear form, yes. I have killed before.” You stepped closer and he watched you, his eyes showing something you had never seen before. Nervousness. Only an arms length away, you stopped, your eyes not wavering from his.

“And the chains?” You had never gotten an answer, and you did not expect him to answer now. But he swallowed hard, and nodded his head once.

“My people were kidnapped by Orcs,” he returned gruffly, his voice quieter now. “Enslaved for sport. I escaped.”

“And wear them to remember. And the others?” you could not help but ask. Your voice was faint, a whisper as if afraid of startling him out of sharing anything about this moment.

“Were not as lucky.” You could hear the pain in his throat, the raw emotion that he had lived with for years.

“I love you,” you said softly. “Do you believe me?”

“No.”

The answer was so simple, it caused you to smile. “Then let me prove it. If you are open to being loved. If you are open … to me?”

He was silent once more, though for not as long. “You do not care that I turn into a bear?”

“It is who you are… You won’t hurt me. I know that in my heart.”

“Your heart has no eyes to see the danger it’s in,” Beorn returned pointedly. You rolled your eyes, and knelt before him, so that your chest was centimeters away from his knees. His gaze followed you intently. “It is blind to anything that could hurt you.”

“You won’t hurt me,” you repeated quietly.

“You’ve never seen what I can do.” He looked as though he was serious. And it sent a shiver through you. You had wondered if he killed before. He didn’t have the temperament of someone that did it for sport, which was what kept you so at ease. But if he was afraid of what he turned into, then you suspected even his stubborn temperament changed.

“But right now, right here,” you said quietly. His eyes held yours raptly. “You won’t hurt me.” You were confident. And that confidence seemed to be tangible to him. He relaxed, like a burden had been taken off of him. Beorn’s body leaned forward, just enough for him to be able to reach your hands. He pulled them atop his knees.

“Why did you leave Carrock?”

Your tongue darted out to moisten your lips, and his eyes were drawn to it - so quickly you almost questioned if he looked at all. But you answered, faithfully and truthfully. “I turned eighteen, and my father wanted me to marry. I hated him, and I left.” He looked as though that was the last thing he expected. “I came across your home, and was awed by the wildflowers and the way time doesn’t exist here. I was drawn here, and I did not want to leave.”

Your hands slipped from his own, and you leaned closer, your lips tentatively pressing against his own.

It was as if the bear had awoken, because suddenly, his hands were grabbing your hands, pushing your body back a few feet as he slid to his knees in front of you, at your own height. Both of you on the floor, his lips meeting your own viciously, you could not help the gasp of air you needed between the assaults.

“Do you believe me?” you rushed out.

Beorn paused, his hands releasing your own. And he stared at you, as if he had forgotten himself. As if you had made him forget who he was. “No.”

Your shoulders dropped in disappointment. Your eyes searched him, trying to read him. But you were never good at deciphering what he was feeling until it was too late. But he did not shy away from you. You took your newly freed hands, and slid them up his arms, towards his neck, embracing him. Surely, he would not have kissed you so fervently if he did not feel something for you? “Then let me prove it.”

He gave a hesitant nod of assent and you held his gaze for only a moment more before your hands dropped to his trousers. He caught your wrists. “No. You need not-” His eyes were widened slightly. But you didn’t look away.

“Let me.”

The command was simple, and he submitted.


End file.
